Page 15 of Cowboy Bear's Hope

He wasn’t conceited, and he didn’t give off jerk vibes—believe me when I said I had first-hand experience with those.

Really, he was the perfect man.

And, of course, he wanted nothing to do with me.

FML.

Chapter Five-Avery

Dante Bianco checked every single one of my boxes.

If I were a sculptor, he would be my very own Pygmalion come to life.

I sometimes wished I was one of those effortlessly confident women who could make men fall at their feet with barely a glance. You know the type. Tall, elegant, perfectly aware of their place in the world at the top of the totem pole.

But that wasn’t me. In fact, I was the polar opposite of whatever that was.

So naturally, I stood like a moron as he exited his truck and walked around to greet Rosie, those sturdy arms open wide for my little girl.

My mouth went dry, my thoughts silenced by the sight of him closing the space between us.

Every step seemed deliberate.

Each one a display of restrained power.

The sturdy denim of his jeans gripped his tree trunk thighs like it was barely holding together.

Stretching and yielding as if defying the laws of whatever it was that held fabric together.

Physics maybe?

I wasn’t exactly in a position to contemplate that since I had to remind myself to breathe as my chest tightened.

The flannel shirt clung to his broad torso, hinting at the raw strength beneath.

I’d seen him without it once—just once—but it had been enough to etch the memory into my mind.

Dante wasn’t just a man. He was a force of nature.

His muscles weren’t chiseled in the way leaner men’s often were. But he didn’t need intricate definition to be sexy as fuck.

What he had was raw, unfiltered power. The kind that spoke of function over form, of strength born not from vanity but from purpose.

And God, but it pulled at something primal in me.

There was a part of me that wanted to be enveloped by him. Like I wanted to just sink into the warmth and safety of his presence.

It was irrational. A purely visceral desire—to feel the weight of his arms around me, to take refuge in the unyielding shelter of his body.

The dominance he carried wasn’t flashy or loud. It was quiet, understated, like a steady hum of electricity in the air, a shield of confidence and capability that surrounded him.

His muscles seemed to ripple with each motion, tensing and relaxing in a symphony of strength.

Even the simple act of adjusting his belt before crouching down to scoop up my eager daughter seemed to radiate a kind of masculine grace.

Rosie didn’t hesitate. She darted toward him with a giggle, certain that his arms would open for her—and they did.

He caught her like it was his job. Like he’d done it a million times. His big hands cradling her as though she were made of glass.

---